


throat on fire

by lovethybooty



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Angst, Book/Movie 2: Catching Fire, District 4, During Canon, Everything Hurts, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Sexual Abuse, Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 08:29:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovethybooty/pseuds/lovethybooty
Summary: at the final eight, they interview your family and friends back home.





	throat on fire

**Author's Note:**

> sad, sad, sad ! big thanks to oh_so_loverly for helping me title this <3

finnick. her lips mouth his name without even thinking about it. not much of a surprise, really; wandering roads and oceans alike will always lead her back to him, even when that’s the last thing she wants.

_he’s sitting in his boat. overhead the sky is blue, or grey, or purple, or pink. it doesn't really matter now that he’s here with her. the sky could be green and she wouldn't pay any mind to it._

_“are you getting in, or what?”_

_he peers at her from behind sunglasses, dark tinted lens that hide his eyes from view. she wishes she could see them, know just exactly what he means and how he means it. they say the eyes are the windows to the soul. that’s a load of mierda, she thinks, but not with him. those brilliant eyes have always told her all she needs to know. she trusts him anyway._

_"yeah,” she calls. her back is to him, head of chocolate wave tossed over one shoulder. “just give me a second.”_

_she takes her time in stripping down, peeling off each layer of clothes until she’s left nearly bare. it’s nothing he hasn't seen before, but she makes a little show of it anyway. first is her shirt, lithe fingers curled around the hem as she pulls it over her head. teal hues watch as it floats down toward the splintered planks of the dock before hands can find her waist. then come the shorts, shimmied down past slender hips and stepped out of one leg at a time. her sandals are last, slipped from each foot with her ankle bracelet left on. it had been a birthday gift from mags._

_she takes a cautious step toward the boat. he reaches out his hand and she slips her own into it, lets him help her step over the side._

that memory, and all others like it, are long gone. now the image of him wasting in that pool, breathless and alone, is etched into her brain. it’s all she sees, played over and over and over again like a picture show on repeat. she presses clammy palms to her ears, a silly attempt to block out cries that only she can hear, but it doesn’t do anything except make the mental image of him erupt like molten lava.

it feels like she’s burning alive. annie is used to the heat, of course, harsh flames that dare lap at tan skin like ocean waves. but this is different — it’s all consuming, it’s swallowing her whole and she cannot breathe. eyes touch closed, squeezed tight. in this instance, she is no longer a victor, but rather a tribute once again. it is the same scene from her games, the scared mad girl with wild eyes who snapped in the flood and lost control of herself.

behind closed lids she pictures him laughing, crinkles by his eyes and a spatula in hand as he tries to teach her the art of pancakes. she pictures him sleeping, arm tossed over his face to drown out the morning light that peeks through cotton thin curtains. she pictures him crying, drunk and slumped against the bathroom door for a reason she doesn't really remember anymore. she pictures him gagging, wrists tied behind his back with a silk scarf that left red rings he tried to hide for weeks. she pictures him bleeding, screaming for mercy in that jungle and mourning the death of their mother alone in the dark. she pictures him laughing, sleeping, crying, gagging, bleeding. she pictures him dead.

“miss cresta.”

the voice comes from behind the camera. not even the host, with his uncomfortable laugh and nervous glances, is able to call her back.

“ _miss cresta_.”

eyes blink open slowly. she shakes her head and forces a smile.

“i’m sorry. what was the question again?”


End file.
